


Getting Off

by Hoodoo



Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: Aftercare, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-02
Updated: 2018-04-02
Packaged: 2019-04-17 07:22:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14183856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hoodoo/pseuds/Hoodoo
Summary: You make a naughty request of Doofus Rick;  he's not sure he can handle it.





	Getting Off

Zeta-7 didn’t make much noise.

He was already self-conscious, and the request, well, it was odd. Having a woman—anyone, really—watch you have a wank wasn’t something typical. Unless of course it was some kind of secret voyeurism or something, and then it seemed dirty and deviant. Even he knew that, and he knew very little about other people’s sex lives, except for what he’d read or happened to see glancing in through a window or overheard when the rest of them were bragging.

But then again, you had specifically requested to watch him. You specifically requested that he do this, so did that make it deviant? If a voyeur explicitly asks the person being observed to do the thing the voyeur wants to see, does that make it less voyeuristic? Less odd? Then did it just become a more normal, shared experience? Would it lead down the path to other deviant-ish activities? 

Was masturbating in front of you a gateway activity?

You’d told him you wanted him to do what he normally did, and when he heard that, Rick drew a blank. What _did_ he normally do? Not masturbate, that’s what. At his creased brow expression, you suggested maybe the shower, or the sofa, or the bed; standing, sitting, lying down—

—did men _do_ this in all those places? Rick barely repressed a shudder. He never knew! Oh, he knew men pleasured themselves, he’d just never fully considered that other men simply _wouldn’t_ jerk off, that he was the abnormal one, and now every surface of the world was suspect.

And what could you possibly get from this? What enjoyment could you possibly derive from watching him bring himself to orgasm? There was no logical reason that it should do anything for you. You would be an observer. Nothing more. You’d simply be watching him do this to himself, watching his motions, watching his expressions, hearing whatever sounds he happened to make . . .

It was all too much.

Rick’s erection waned in his hand.

To your credit, you didn’t say anything about that. When he never really came up with his ‘normal place’, you proposed just going to bed. 

You’d kissed—that was normal; you’d stripped —that was normal; you caressed and fondled and engaged in all the other typical foreplay—that was normal; he’d gotten an erection—that was normal; you asked again if he would masturbate for you —

That was not normal, and although he’d managed to oblige you for a short amount of time, Rick’s brain bogged down with too many questions that couldn’t be answered, and he stopped.

You scooted closer, and he wanted to curl against the heat of you. He wanted to apologize, he wanted to not apologize, he wanted to just do what you normally did and forget this whole situation, since he obviously couldn’t do something every male on the planet did on a regular basis—

“Will you sit up, Ricky?” you whispered. 

Sometimes you called him Ricky, only here in the bedroom, only for his ears. He liked it, a private word for just the two of you.

Rick complied, even though you didn’t explain yourself.

You propped the pillows up against the headboard, then on your hands and knees crawled behind him. You sat between him and the pillows, and tugged him backwards until he rested against you, back to chest. He was positioned between your legs.

This didn’t make him any less uncomfortable, nor did his erection return.

You ran your hands over his chest and abdomen. Your breath was warm and moist on his shoulder—abruptly you readjusted yourself so you were more upright, and he was just a bit more prone. Now he could rest his head on your collarbone, against your neck. That was nice.

“I love seeing you like this,” you said into his hair. “The long line of your body. Your skin against the sheets. I like to feel your hipbone—“ you demonstrated by cupping it with your hand, “and I like this bit of hair right here.”

Rick loved your hands on him and relaxed. He let his hands rest comfortably on your legs.

Your fingers gently tugged the smattering of chest hair near his right nipple You fell silent then, but continued to caress him, even dipping close to his cock, your fingers sliding on the slightly darker hair at his pubis. 

You never touched him more intimately than that, but his erection returned.

Rick tensed minutely. Would you ask him to try again? Would he disappoint you again—that was ridiculous, he shouldn’t worry about disappointing you, he was perfectly within his rights to not want to wank off in front of someone, even if you asked him to and even if he wanted to please you—

“Why don’t you show me how you like it?” you asked. “You don’t have to do it yourself; I’ll have my hand on you and you can guide me . . .”

You demonstrated by gently taking his erection in hand. It felt good, but your touch was soft; you obviously wanted him to put his hand over yours to direct the pressure and speed to make it best for himself—

His right hand trembled as he started to comply.

“Rick, it’s just an experiment,” you said quietly.

Those were magic words. 

Of course it was! You needed to understand how he pleasured himself! You needed to study his bodily responses, needed to have deeper knowledge of his most intimate moment—Rick suddenly understood. It made sense now.

In the end he used his own hand, like a normal man. He still didn’t make much noise, although you did, gasping from vicarious pleasure quietly in his ear as you watched. He felt his cock grow harder at your sounds, and that did make him moan. He knew you saw him apply more attention to his foreskin, allowing it to slip over the head of his cock more frequently than you typically did, and somewhere, in the far reaches of his mind, he wondered how you would use that new information.

You had asked him to masturbate for you, but you didn’t seem to be able to not touch him—one hand gripping the hipbone you’d mentioned previously; the other splayed on his abdomen—as his pleasure escalated. You even stopped him completely, once, catching his right wrist and drawing his hand back so you could coat the palm of his hand and each finger in saliva. Rick had a close up view of your lips around his digits and moaned at the sight. 

He dropped his hand back to his cock and the warm wet friction was glorious. 

Then you closed your hand over his, the opposite of what you suggested earlier. You didn’t dictate anything; he was still completely in control of his own pleasure. But the feel of your hand on his, mimicking his movements, provided just enough stimulation that Rick felt an orgasm rushing up from his core, shutting down all thoughts. 

He arched and came with a groaning cry, ejaculating over his fist. Somewhere he heard you cry out too. Slowly the room came back into focus as his senses returned.

You released him and carefully used a tissue to mop up the pooled semen on his belly—the times Rick had cleaned himself he’d used a damp cloth, so dry was a new sensation. He could feel the bit of remaining residue desiccating to a film on his skin. Maybe this was why men jerked off in the shower? Less clean up? He would seriously have to consider trying that later, just for the ease of it—because he felt too weak to move right now. Rick felt blissfully warm and comfortable lying back against you.

You pressed a kiss into the side of his head, near his temple. 

“Thank you,” you said.

He should thank you. He should offer to do something to you—you were obviously aroused by what he just did. But you didn’t seem upset you hadn’t orgasmed tonight; you held him and kissed him again and didn’t seem impatient or put out. He promised himself that he would make it up to you.

He would thank you, and propose to masturbate for you again—maybe in the shower!—and some night he spoil you by pleasuring you anyway you liked, as often as you liked. 

He would do all those things. But now he was sliding closer into the security of warmth and sleep. You climbed out from behind him and settled him under sheets and blankets properly. You pressed close—that was nice—and kissed him on the mouth—that was nicer—and whispered, 

“Thank you, Ricky,” again, and then he drifted to sleep, sated. 

_fin._


End file.
